


Pretty Much Too Late

by vanceypants



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Gen, M/M, Trans Rich Goranski, based on bojack but no knowledge of that show is required in order to understand this fic, bodied squip, bojack horseman inspired au, in fact i'd recommend going in blind, jeremy/squip is a past relationship btw, morally questionable ethics, rich goranski is sarah lynn, terrible role model squip, unlikely friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/pseuds/vanceypants
Summary: Being a robot in Hollywood is hard enough without Oscar snubs and disrespect.  The Squip finds a kindred soul in a former costar, as the two find solace the only way they know how: getting good and thoroughly trashed.An AU shamelessly based semi-loosely on Bojack Horseman S3e11
Relationships: Jeremy Heere/Jeremy Heere's Squip, Rich Goranski & Jeremy Heere's Squip
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Pretty Much Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if this will appeal to anyone but the concept would not leave me alone. Lots of jumps between past and present (so I hope it isn't completely incomprehensible). Morally questionable at best content moving forward. I hope you enjoy!

Truth be told, the Squip had not been built for long term use. For a bot of his caliber to get one working gig--a commercial, a game show hosting gig, maybe a sidekick gig on a talk show--was nothing short of miraculous.

To land a major sitcom, something long running and culturally impactful enough to leave enough of an impression for people to question “where are they now?”...

Well.

It wasn’t proper etiquette, truly, to look such a blessing in the eyes and question “what next?”

Then again, Squip had never exactly been known for proper etiquette.

The countertop was littered with empty half gallons of hard liquor, the stench of vodka and whiskey wafting over the thick sludge of cigarette smoke. Consumption of drugs certainly wasn’t advisable for his model--and, indeed, he’d never truly gotten adept at handling his liquor at the best of times--but the sting of intoxication swirled with the pulse of nicotine in nearly the right frequency to make him forget the throbbing disappointment of this year’s awards season, or the twitching itch of loneliness, or the quivering tear of the Great Big Awful Something he’d found himself involved in last year in New Jersey-

Ah.

He clearly hadn’t drank enough after all, if he was still in the realms of “nearly” and “almost”.

Squip’s feet held his body steady, even as his head spun and lurched about in the depths of poor impulse control and the slobbering desire for another drink. A rolodex of names flashed through his data banks. People to get fucked up with. People he’d fucked up. People he’d fucked. People he’d-

Too many names. His fingers grasped at the counter, eyes squeezing shut. The hand that wasn’t clutching at the counter swiped out blindly, picking up bottle after bottle until he found one which had yet to be fully drained. He brought the glass to his lips, spilling the burning fluids down his throat. The bottle dropped back to the counter after in an almost cosmic grace, a wobble, before righting itself, failing its shatter, as his eyes opened, and he grasped at his phone.

The person on the other end managed to get half of a “He-” out by way of greeting before he spoke up to interrupt them.

“Do you want to get fucked up?”

“Finally!” The free for all bliss within the voice was almost enough to draw a smile onto Squip’s serious features. There was the clatter of cabinets being thrown open from the other’s phone line. “When the fuck are you coming over?”

There was a brief consideration that, perhaps, just perhaps, Squip shouldn’t be driving.

And there was a brief consideration that, perhaps, just perhaps, interrupting his former costar’s run of sobriety for a self-pitying bender might be the exact opposite of what he should be doing.

“I’ll be there in ten,” He paused, the slurry of his own fragmented mind still able to process the predictability of LA traffic conditions and patterns of similar weather patterns and their effect on his ability to travel. “Perhaps 30 in this traffic.”

“Yeah yeah, just move your ass, would you?”

“Relax, Goranski. I’ll be there.” He disconnected the call, surveying the mess of his own countertops. A twitch, a reminder that once upon a time he’d not so much as put down a glass without a coaster.

Now this was his life.

His fingers drummed anxiously against the counter, as he gave another shake of his head, then retrieved his keys, and his pants, and just enough of a sober mindset to realistically justify getting behind the wheel for yet another entry into a series of increasing awful decisions.

***

There was a brief moment, between Squip’s time on his sitcom and his first motion picture, where he’d considered the unfairness that his youngest costar had flourished into such opulence and acclaim, while he’d squandered about in 3rd rate, C list status. Surely it was a sign of the degradation and oppression of robots. Squip was well versed in the classics. He’d poured every upgrade into his craft. And just because this child star was organic, they got to enjoy all the fruits of success?

As time had pulsed forward though, as Rich’s star had only grown brighter and Squip’s had faded further and further into Jeopardy trivia obscurity, it became more apparent that the truth was, some people just had It and some people (or robots, as it were) didn’t.

Somedays, Squip defined It as star power.

Somedays, Squip defined It as the effervescent charisma of someone primed for the limelight.

Most days, Squip defined It with some of the same words one would use to speak of cockroaches. Vermin. Tenacious. Unshakeable. An unwavering inability to be squashed out.

Immortal.

Rich Goranski was a cockroach. He was a cockroach with a Hollywood Walk of Fame star and three platinum albums and four grammys and seventeen restraining orders and more covers on more magazines than Squip knew anyone could ever subscribe to and

Yes.

Yes Squip was a little jealous.

Yes Squip was a little jealous of a 22 year old.

But, in all fairness, much like every other achievement in his life, he’d earned his jealousy honesty. 

Walking into the lavish mansion, Squip was struck with the cleanliness. The last time he’d been here had been...god, who’s birthday had it been? Rich’s? Some other former costar’s? Someone perhaps he hadn’t even known? Had it even been a birthday at all? Rich had always had that habit of proclaiming “it’s a birthday!” when, truth be told, he’d never needed much of a reason at all to celebrate. 

Whatever the case, the last time he’d been here, the floor had been more vomit puddle than tile. Every surface was a writhing, moaning mass of flesh and metal and debauchery. Someone had taken a shit in a priceless vase. There had been a mime.

It certainly hadn’t smelled like lavender and the slightly Christmas impression of pine cones. 

It made Squip uneasy, to enter into somewhere so composed. 

He moved towards the faint sound of noise, relief washing over him as he watched Rich hum and move about his kitchen, blender on the counter, half-full of a slurry of ingredients which had left some sort of vaguely blue slush.

“It’s about goddamn time,” He chirped. His smile was bright, the gap in his teeth which he’d never bothered to fix catching Squip’s eye. By now, he supposed, fixing that flaw would prove more detrimental than helpful. All part of his image.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He moved over to the blender, leaning forward and cautiously smelling the blend. His nose twitched distastefully. “What is that?”

“Clearly not potent enough.” Rich grabbed the neck of one of his bottles, tipping the contents in the blender. Grabbing a fistful of fruit after, he tossed it in, placing the lid on the blender and pureeing it into a pulp. When it was finished, he poured it into a glass, beaming as he held it out. “Slip that around the ol’ fartpuncher and see what you think.”

“...what are you trying to say?” The familiar pulse of discombobulation he got around Rich was already beginning to throb. His fingers clutched the glass as he waited for an explanation.

“You know. Your tongue. Your ass-prodder.” Rich flicked the dyed strip of hair from his face, one hand poised on his hip, the other gesturing to make his point. “You eat ass. Eating involves your tongue. You feel me?”

“You’re disgusting. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, well, you’re in my house now, buddy. Now grease up that self-lubricating butt-wiper and-”

“Take a drink,” He cut him off. “Just tell me to take a drink.”

Rich’s voice pitched up an octave, while simultaneously imitating a British accent (or at least, Squip was fairly certain it was supposed to be a British accent of some sort; voice work of that level had never been Rich’s specialty). “Oh yes, indeed, my good sir. Please, partake in a beverage,” The accent dropped, as did his expression, voice a monotonous irritation, “Fuckin cocksucker.”

“You’re exhausting.” 

Somewhere after that, Rich offered some sort of coy response, some quippy reminder that Squip had been the one to invite himself over.

But Squip was spilling the contents of the drink into his mouth. The sweetness mixing with the sour bite of the alcohol itself. His oldest friend, the delicious familiarity of sweet oblivion.

The exhaustion of being with Rich, of being a washed up something, of being alive, all draining lower and lower with every swallow of sweet burning ambrosia.

***

The first time Squip had seen Emily, he’d been sober, and the pages of his script had felt feather light within his quivering hands. He never seemed to know what to do with his hands.

She wore a blue sundress, and her hair was in loose, curled pigtails. He wasn’t sure if it was something from the costume department, or just what her father had chosen for her. Vaguely, he was aware of being informed that family members of the child stars were around, and perhaps if he put together all the details and patterns, he’d have been able to piece together which ill fitting blend of humanity had produced this one.

She looked at him with a wide eyed naivety, too innocent perhaps to realize she was meant not to stare, that perhaps she should have looked unsteady or nervous, afraid they wouldn’t be picked up by the network, worried that her coworkers wouldn’t like her, tense about what to do with her damn hands because really Squip couldn’t stress enough that he didn’t know how people seemed to know so effortlessly what to do with their hands-

None of that anxiety marred her face. All she wore on her face was a bright smile and a spattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, details which hadn’t been blotted out completely by stage makeup just yet.

“And this is Squip,” One of the stagehands said, nudging her closer. “He’s going to be your stage dad.”

“Hi,” She said. Her toes pigeoned inward. One of her shoes was untied. Squip fiddled with the corners of one of the pages.

“Yes,” He said. As though that were the proper response to a child greeting you. Answering a question no one had posed.

“He’s going to look out for you,” The stage hand said. Then glanced at the robot. “Isn’t that right, Squip?”

“I mean, I have a lot of lines to learn, and frankly that’s really not my job.”

The staff member rolled her eyes, and walked away. Squip stared down at the child, who looked at him with a sense of curious wonder.

“Well.” He said, clearing his throat. She giggled a little. “Okay then,” he concluded, stepping around her and going to his dressing room. Lots of lines. Not his problem.

Besides, even if the network picked them up, they’d have a season, maybe two, of dealing with each other, before they’d inevitably face cancelation. There was absolutely no sense in proclaiming a camaraderie with every tiny organic face which crossed his path.

***

“This song sucks my titties and rocks my ass,” Rich had ended up on the coffee table at some point. Remnants of white lines of powder glistened at his feet against the glass, his bare toes flexing for traction as his hips gyrated from side to side.

Squip blinked, an uneven flutter of eyelashes as his fingers flexed around the near-empty bottle of Everclear. He stared at it a moment, swirled it around to weigh whether it was even worth drinking.

What the hell.

Downing it, he watched as Rich leapt from the coffee table, landing with a flourish on the carpet, his hands held above his head.

“Ta-da.”

Squip stared. 

Rich rolled his eyes. “You’re supposed to clap. Whatever, give me that.” He snatched the bottle from Squip, trying to take a drink, then huffing in annoyance at the emptiness. His arm reared back, flinging it into the wall and letting the shards scatter into the carpet. 

“You’re a little much.”

“You’re a little too serious.” Rich put on an exaggerated frown, hands poised onto his hips. “You’re not still pissy about the Oscars, are you, man? I mean, it sucks that you weren’t nominated for your little...uh...for...movie. But-”

“You don’t even know the title of the project I’ve been working on, do you?”

Rich shrugged. “I’ve been busy.” He moved over to the coffee table again, getting onto his knees and grabbing his platinum card, scraping it back and forth until he’d gathered enough of the remnants of coke to take another hit. Inhaling with a precision of years of practice, he wriggled his nose after, laughing slightly. “Sobriety has been taking up a lot of my time, dude, what can I tell you?”

“Sobriety. Clearly, you’re doing great at that.”

“Yeah, well, the post-sobriety high is supposed to be dope as fuck, you know?” Rich flopped himself onto the couch beside Squip, tossing his legs into his lap. His eyes closed, a lopsided smirk on his face. “And they’re right, for the record.”

“Charming.”

“I know, right? God I’m fucking great.” 

“If anything, your lack of partying should have given you more time to pay attention to my proj-”

Rich groaned, opening his eyes. “Bro, come on. It’s bad enough working my steps and going to meetings and all that super boring sponsor-lead bullshit. Last month I had to go on a fucking retreat. Do you know how boring it is shitting in the woods sober?”

Squip’s look of distaste, he was certain, was apparent. But Rich remained unphased by it.

“Frankly, dude, I just wasn’t in the mood to run arthouse lines with you while you, I don’t know, projected your childhood grief or what the fuck ever this whole “serious cinema” thing is for you.”

“I don’t have childhood grief. That would require a childhood.”

Rich nodded a little. “Yeah, good point. This whole Hollywood cycle of chewing you up and spitting you out sorta kills any chance at a real childhood. You know I don’t even know how to ride a bike, dude? And I’ve never-”

“Richard. I’m a robot. I was never a child. Spare me your self-pity.”

“Who’s got time for pity? Gross, dude, where’s your drink?” Rich rolled off of Squip’s lap, starting for the kitchen. “Anyway,” he said as he climbed onto one of the cabinets, grabbing some bottles from a top shelf, then hopping to the kitchen floor. “You obviously have some weird hangups about your creator or whatever. I mean, you had plenty of dressing room rants about him when we were-”

“You really don’t know what movie I’ve been working on?”

Rich tossed some ice cubes into a glass, then a hefty pour of liquor. “I don’t know, dude. Something about some dead white guy or something probably? How should I know?”

Squip sighed, taking the glass. “I suppose I cannot fault you too much. It’s not as though anyone else commiserated with me when the nominations came out.”

“When you weren’t nominated.”

His tongue felt shriveled and dry in his mouth. He took a long drink to try to offset the discomfort. “Right.”

“People suck.”

“You never reached out either.”

“I suck too. So do you. Everyone sucks. Something something bitches and death, there’s some fancy saying about it or whatever.”

Several idioms flashed through his mind at once, but Squip decided against extrapolating upon any of them. “Yes, well...yes. That’s very true.”

“Damn fucking straight it’s true. Hey,” Rich cradled the bottle in his hand, gesturing with it as he got closer to him. “You know what, though, dude? Fuck ‘em. That’s what I say.”

“You’re right. I don’t need anyone.”

“Fuck right you don’t, dude. You’re the motherfucking Squip. You’re a fucking movie star, dude!”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“Hell yeah you are. So what if you don’t have an Oscar? You know what you do have?”

“Dignity. Talent. Intelligence. Self worth.”

“Well, sure, yeah, all of that shit. But you also have a car and a shitload of cash. You wanna score some crystal and fuck off while all these elitist fuckwits fellate each other per Academy approval?”

“What?”

“You wanna get fucked up with me until life feels better again?”

“Very much yes.” 

“That’s my TV daddy! Let’s fuckin’ rock, dude.”

***

“Sometimes I...s-sometimes I worry I’m n-not a good person.”

Jeremy seemed to shimmer under a haze Squip couldn’t seem to wipe away, as though a film had been draped over their bodies, the very air itself.

“Good is subjective. There are many different schools on morality.”

“Well, do you think...do you think I’m good?”

“Why should I care to think about that?”

Jeremy shrugged, hugging his knees in to his chest. “...well, do you th-think you’re a good person?”

Something clanged within his circuits. “What do you mean?”

“Are you a good person, Squip?”

Squip traced a finger against the ground between them. They were sitting under the jungle gym of some elementary school playground. Jeremy smelled like cheap cologne and strawberry wine. Their hands were close enough, even with the fog surrounding them, that he could feel his body heat.

“I’m not a person at all, Jeremy.”

Jeremy smiled, the sort of sad smile that never failed to make Squip question the solidity of the universe he inhabited. “I g-guess that’s fair. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’re, uh, you’re about to hit a stop sign by the way.”

“I’m about to--what?”

“You should, uh, you should probably wake up now.”

Squip blinked once, twice, and then dragged himself out of the trappings of his own subconscious. The playground melted in blotches, until Jeremy was wiped clean from his vision. Instead, the darkness of the road stretched out before him. The steering wheel was cold and solid under his hand.

Rich sat in the passenger seat. Well, Rich sort of balanced precariously in the passenger seat--for the most part. His head and one of his arms was hanging out the window, an amber bottle of booze clutched in his fist as he scream-sang to whatever gutter trash he’d put onto Squip’s radio.

Squip barely remembered Jeremy’s warning about the stop sign to evade crashing in time. He noted the hairline fractures on his windshield. Clearly, he’d already run into some sort of motor vehicle disaster. How long had he been driving? Where was he driving?

The questions about his personhood, and whether that theoretical existence was one of moral worth, thankfully found themselves swallowed into the insipid monotony of the next song’s chorus.

***

“I can’t believe you don’t like to eat.”

They sat on the hood of the car. Four boxes of Happy Meals scattered between them, as Squip idly played with one of the Beanie Babies which had been packed inside.

Not played, he corrected himself. He was merely examining it. Whatever pills Rich had slipped him clearly had him more intently focused than he’d have ordinarily been on small plush animals.

“Food is unnecessary. Besides,” Squip glanced over him. “Your body image is supposed to be important, isn’t it? For your career? Maybe you should eat a little less.”

Rich shrugged. “I like to eat. Used to have a lot of trouble, you know, getting groceries and shit, before...all of this,” he waved vaguely. Squip supposed he meant his fame. “Anyway, I can always purge or hit the gym or get lipo or something. What’s it fucking matter? Food is good. You’re not my manager, why the fuck do you care?”

“If I were human, I’d just drink water and take vitamins.”

“Well, you, my friend, would be a waste of cells. Eating, fucking, and kissing are the three best things of being human.”

“I’m capable of doing all of those actions.”

“Calm down, it’s not a call out. Listen. You fuckin’ bots, you’re superior in nearly every other way. But us humans gotta take our little pleasures where we can.” He unwrapped a burger, taking a large bite, then speaking as he mashed the food between his teeth. “If I wanna eat a McCancer, that’s my god given right as a flesh and blood Human-American.”

“Your list is redundant, by the way. You could have simply condensed it to consumption and fornication.”

“No way, dude. Kissing and fucking aren’t the same.” Rich flopped back against the hood of the car, fingers lacing behind his head. “Fucking is fun. Orgasms are great. But kissing…” he trailed off. “You ever kiss someone like, you know, someone you’re really into? That sorta breathless kissing where you can’t figure out which taste is you and which taste is them?”

“You’re going to turn me off of kissing now too. Is that your intention?”

“I’m serious. Look, love’s a fraud, emotions are stupid, but kissing is good enough to sorta make you forget that, right? At least if you do it right.”

“Did I do it right?”

Rich looked over at him for a moment. “What, like, when we did it?” Squip didn’t bother to nod. Rich sat up again, taking another bite. He took the time to chew this time, and swallow. “Yeah,” He finally said, nudging his shoulder against Squip’s. “Maybe you’re a shitty actor, but you’re an alright kisser.”

“I’m not a shitty actor.”

“Where’s your Oscar then, pal?”

Squip rolled his eyes as Rich laughed, bright hiccuping pleasure between slurps of milkshake and chomps of McNuggets.

***

“What’s your favorite color?”

Squip hunched over his vanity, the cap of his highlighter grasped between his teeth, as he set yellow ink onto the lines he’d been allotted for the upcoming season finale. Abysmal writing, truly, but he supposed two Emmys validated the writers’ decisions more than his own personal standards of taste ever could.

He glanced towards the door, at the snippet of a child standing in frame. Emily was clutching a pack of crayola crayons, the excessive 64 pack with the built in sharpener.

Squip rolled his eyes and spit out the cap, setting the highlighter down. Experience proved she wouldn’t leave until she got an answer of some sort.

He stared until she finally spoke up again.

“I’m making Valentimes-”

“Valentines,” He drawled. Irritating, the improper speech patterns some people instilled in their children. “The correct term is Valentines.”

“Yeah. Those!” Emily beamed. “In real schools, all the kids give valentimes to each other and the teacher helps them pass them out. Teachers are really cool. Maybe when I’m done with being on the TVs, I can be a teacher someday. I wanna be a teacher.”

“You really need to work on that lisp.”

“What’s a lisp?”

“Forget it.” He regarded her for a moment, the childish overalls and clumsy styling of her bangs. “Did you need something?”

“No.” She paused, adding, “Only to know your favorite color.”

“That’s hardly any of your business.”

“Okay.”

He turned his back on her, glancing down at the script again. Perhaps if he spoke to the writers, they could do something to fix some of these awful lines. Perhaps-

He felt her breathing against the back of his arm, and he jolted away in shock as he turned to see that the child had decided to enter his room, looking at him with shameless wonder.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Do you wanna see a magic trick? I think I still remember how to-” She’d set her crayons down, reaching into the pockets of her overalls to pull out a deck of cards.

“What makes you think I’d care about that?” He stood up, grabbing his script and backing away.

“I don’t-”

“Go study your lines. I’m not going to have your unfocused immaturity drag me down.” He didn’t wait for a response--indeed, she was likely too young, he supposed, to actually offer much of a response anyway--instead exiting his own dressing room to find a PA willing to refresh his drink, and a quiet corner of the studio to fix the script to his memory.

***

Squip reminded himself he had no sinuses, and therefore feeling like they were burning was an illogical, delusional, intoxicated response.

It didn’t stop him from sniffling, though, from rubbing his nose obsessively, as though expecting his non-existent blood to flow down his face.

“You know what scares me?” Rich lay against the stringy carpet of the motel room. Squip couldn’t remember booking a room. The sound of sirens outside was almost a comfort.

“What? Hygiene.”

Rich blinked, one hand lethargically moving up to scrape through the greasy strands of his hair. “Touche,” He said with a shaky laugh. 

“I’ll tell you what scares me,” Squip said, sitting up on the bed. He looked down at the ground, where Rich remained starfished out. “Irrelevancy.”

“Yeah.”

“I poured everything into this industry, into these leeches, and what have I gotten out of it? No Oscar. Barely any offers. It’s like no one even cares.”

“They don’t.” Rich finally sat up, reaching out and resting a hand against Squip’s kneecap. Squip stared at him, waiting for Rich to say something else. 

“They should,” He finally replied, when Rich failed to expand.

Rich shrugged slightly. “Maybe. But it’s like, no one’s really owed anything, right? Least of all happiness. Wanna smoke…” he trailed off, glancing at the countertop which housed the motel microwave, and a sizable stack of illegal substances, as though searching for the right word for the right substance to get them out of this fog, “...something?” he finally said vaguely.

“Why not?”

***

“Do you th-think you’ll ever go back?” Jeremy’s thumb poised near his lips, teeth starting to touch down against his nail.

Squip grabbed his wrist, wordlessly guiding his hand away from his mouth. His hand remained against him, a twitch of synthetic flesh against warm human limb. His thumb circled against the softness of his skin. “That’s a nasty habit.”

Jeremy laughed a little, offering a shrug of his shoulders, a shrug which did nothing to dislodge Squip’s touch. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“W-will you ever go back?”

“To California.”

“M-movies. But yeah.”

Filming had barely wrapped before he’d jumped into his car and driven. Driven and driven and driven until he was certain the outlines of his body would bleed into oblivion and he’d fade out like so many others before him.

He didn’t think he was great enough to deserve to die young and spectacularly, least of all because he wasn’t even young any longer. But he could certainly still fade out. And on his own terms, no less.

“I don’t think so.” He finally said. “I was a different person then. Superficial. Self-absorbed. Shortsighted. I’m different now.”

“Y-yeah?”

Squip’s eyes moved over Jeremy’s face, features soft in the way a Hollywood blockbuster on teenhood never seemed to get right. His eyes drifted from the brightness of his eyes, to the fullness of his lips, then back up to his eyes again.

“Yes,” he insisted. He was different now. Everything was different now.

And he’d never go back.

***

“Ahh my hands were so small!” Rich shrieked as they moved down the boulevard. The imprint of his hands in concrete made Squip scowl.

“I still don’t understand why I wasn’t asked to provide my prints.”

Rich dropped to his knees, grinning up at him. “You were. You were just too drunk to get out of your trailer. Wouldn’t it be nuts if my hands still fit?”

He slotted his hands into place. Staring, with a confused smile, at the way the hardened concrete perfectly molded around his fingers. Just like he was a kid again.

“Some things never change,” Squip mused softly.

Rich jerked his hands back, cackling wildly. “If I’m still child-sized, that means I can still do child-sized things like kiddie coasters and going back to college, right?” He stood up again, brushing the dust off his knees. “I always thought college was, like, the coolest thing, you know? All these people being all brainy and shit. Architects. Scientists. Teachers. You think I’d have been a good teacher? I could have worn super dorky glasses and, like, blazers with the elbows patched up or something, and my students would be like “wow, Mr. Goranski is sort of dorky, but he really gets it, you know?””

Squip scoffed. “What parent would entrust their kids to someone like you?”

“Cool ones, probably.” Rich drew out a pill bottle from his pocket, tipping the contents into his lips, then handing the remaining pills to Squip. He took them without questioning their use. “Some kids, like, have really crappy homes, right? A good teacher is the only positive adult influence some kids might have. That’s kinda noble, you know? Like you could really-”

“Did you even go to public school?”

“Nah. My dad paid off a tutor to satisfy those child labor laws that required some sort of schooling.” He snorted. “I mean, I guess you could say I paid off a tutor, because it was my money, but--hey, lets take stupid photo booth pictures together!”

Squip reeled with the attempt to catch up with Rich’s train of thought. Rich’s hand had already slotted into his own, pulling him towards the tourist trap booth in question. “I’m not interested-”

“Don’t care!”

Afterwards, Rich shoved the strips of photos into Squip’s pocket. “Don’t go selling those to the tabloids, bub,” He teased as Squip tried not to think of all the lives they might have lived instead.

***

“Hey, what day is it?”

Rich lifted his head, as though to answer. Or at least, Squip assumed that was why he’d lifted his head. He had verbalized the question, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d only thought it very very loudly. He was pretty sure it had been days since they’d gotten together, or perhaps weeks, or perhaps just very very noisy, long minutes, but how could he be sure? How could he be sure of anything? How could anyone be sure of-

But before Rich could say anything at all, he retched again, curling up in the dirty alley as he vomited the remaining contents of his stomach. Squip patted his back, and glanced at the murky pollution of the night sky.

***

“Purpose?”

Logically, Squip was aware that his creator wasn’t much taller than he was. The illusion of him towering over him in every given moment was just that: an illusion.

It didn’t make him feel any less small though.

“You want to know your purpose?” He sneered, taking a long swallow of his scotch. The ice cubes clanked unpleasantly and Squip had to resist the urge to cover his ears, to muffle the sudden Too Muchness of the noise around him.

He finally managed to nod.

“What makes you think something as useless of you has any purpose? You’re useless. Why else do you think I haven’t bothered to name you?”

Wait.

No, that wasn’t the exact memory, was it? Squip’s mind squirmed and crackled, film reels damaged by age and smoke. Holes burned through the visuals, the memories of his creator’s voice distorted as he tried to replay the memory. Those weren’t the exact words, but they were the exact meaning, weren’t they?

Right?

His mind fizzled and warped and everything was Too Much Too Much Too Much-

***

They sat in the plastic seats in a circle of strangers. Rich’s body wobbled against his chair, and Squip recalled how they’d stood in the parking lot of the church beforehand.

“Not drinking isn’t actually one of the twelve steps,” He’d said with an all knowing grin. It hadn’t sounded right, but Rich had made a career out of making unconvincing characters lovable and true. 

Squip couldn’t remember actually walking in, yet here he sat with a bunch of Verifiable Alcoholics so that Rich could collect his 9 Months Sober chip.

A sober chip, in the midst of their bender.

Well...Squip supposed there were probably worse things they’d both committed in their pasts.

Rich smiled as someone spilled their Rock Bottom to the entirety of the room. His hand reached over, resting over the back of Squip’s own. Casual contact, the only real thing in this mess of dissociation he found himself in.

He turned his palm around, lacing their fingers together, before he inevitably began spewing mocking commentary over the current speaker’s lamentations.

***

They were forcibly removed from the AA meeting.

***

“Why are you so mean to me?”

Emily’s voice was shrill and brittle all at once, her toes still having the unfortunate habit of curving inward even at 12 years old.

Squip stared at the craft table, the mounds of fruit and offerings of beverages, as though food ever sounded appealing to him. Right now, it was certainly more appealing than being nagged by an oversized infant.

“I’m not mean.”

“You hate me.”

Squip decided it wasn’t worth refuting, and so started to walk away. He sighed in irritation as he heard her footsteps following.

“Why? What did I ever do to you?”

“Could you be any more self centered?” he finally turned around. “I don’t hate you, Emily. You’re very irritating, and overly attached, but I don’t hate you. Hate requires more care than you’re worth extending.”

Her eyes sparkled for a moment, before Squip realized what he mistook for intrigue was actually the physical effect of the stage lights reflecting in the tears collecting.

“Look,” He sighed, kneeling down and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Nobody cares about anyone around here but themselves. You’re only as useful as what you can offer the audience. Don’t worry so much about gaining my approval. I’m nobody. But your fans...keep your fans happy, keep their attention. No other love can compare to that.”

“I...okay.” She frowned, pulling back as the words seemed to play over her head. “But you don’t hate me?”

“I already told you, Emily. I’m apathetic towards you. There’s a difference.”

She smiled, cheeks dimpling as she looked at him, voice dripping with relief. “Thanks, Squip. That means everything to me.”

“You really need to work on that lisp.”

“Yeah,” She laughed, as she started to walk away. “I know.”

***

“Ohio?” It was the nicest bed they’d crashed in so far, he had to admit.

That didn’t make the zipcode any less alarming.

“Dude, this is an exact replay of your reaction when we were in Wisconsin.”

“Wiscons--exact replay?” Squip looked around the room, the pictures torn from the walls, the crumpled up tissues from (he presumed) Rich’s persisting bloody noses. 

“Yeah. And you said ‘we need to get back home,’ we started to drive home, and then you turned us back arou--you seriously don’t remember any of this?”

Squip expected Rich to look concerned as he said it, but instead he looked deeply amused.

“Well, we do need to get back home,” Squip grumbled as he jumped out of bed. Ohio. What the hell would they be doing in Ohio?

“Yeah yeah, likely story. I’ve heard this song and dance.” Rich sauntered over, holding a glass out for Squip.

Squip lifted his hand, preparing to smack it out of his hand. Clearly, more liquor wasn’t the answer.

But, he supposed, it also wasn’t not the answer, right?

He took the drink, but did so while glaring to make it clear to the universe that he disapproved of this development, thank you very much.

“Why would I want to come to Ohio?”

“You don’t. It’s a pitstop.”

“A pitstop to where?”

“I don’t know, east coast I guess.” Rich hopped onto the bed, bouncing lightly as he tried to touch the ceiling. “You said you needed to make amends.”

“Well, I did anger a lot of Red Sox fans, but I fail to see how-”

“You said his name was Jeremy or something.”

Something shattered within Squip’s chest. Something liquid and sticky and heavy began to pool down his circuits, staining and tainting and violating every inch of his internals.

“We need to go home.”

“Hey, are you ok-”

“We need to go home. We need to go home now, Rich. I can’t believe I-”

“Hey.” Rich stopped bouncing, dropping down to sit next to him. His arm felt tiny and frail as it wrapped around Squip. Squip found himself curling up against him. 

“I did something bad.” He wondered, briefly, if his voice box was warped in some way. His words sounded too juvenile, too tiny, to have been produced by his mouth.

Rich pressed his lips to the top of his head. His arm squeezed him. “So have I,” he said softly. “But see, that’s what I learned with this 12 steps thing. We all do shitty things. But we can all make amends too.”

“What’s the point?”

“Nothing, I guess. Feeling better, maybe. Something about legacy or impact or accountability or something? Dude, I don’t know. Maybe if I’d gone to college I’d know. Like, if I were some worldly professor or something. Giving sage wisdom. But fuck, dude, I’m barely literate. You remember when I used to carry encyclopedias around the studio?”

“Yes,” Squip felt himself smile despite himself. “I assumed you were just carrying them to sit on for artificial height.”

“I mean, they worked for that too. God, I always wanted to be one of those brainy kids. A couple years ago, they had me on Celebrity Jeopardy. Did you see that?” Squip shook his head. Rich snorted. “It was humiliating. Like, I didn’t even know I had shame to feel, but that was rough.” He leaned over, head resting against Squip’s shoulder. “Look. Whatever happened, it’s not too late to make things better. I mean, you were a jackass to me too, and I turned out fine.”

Squip opened his mouth to protest. But Rich was already sitting up. 

“NOW! You said you knew a guy in Toledo who could hook us up with some heroin, remember?”

“Obviously I don’t remember, but I’ll go through my contacts and jog my memory.”

***

The first night in the Heere household, Squip had slept on the couch. 

By the third week, he was sleeping on a blowup mattress in the guest room.

It felt strange, after so many weeks depending on sofa cushions or inflatable surfaces, to sit on an actual bed.

Christmas lights glittered around Jeremy’s room, a note of irony given that it wasn’t a holiday he celebrated. Then again, Squip supposed, that probably wasn’t actually an example of irony.

He used to speak to Alanis Morissette. Maybe he should call her and ask if that counted as a proper example of irony.

The pressure of Jeremy’s body weight against the mattress jostled Squip out of his thoughts. Jeremy giggled, syrupy and drunk, as he brushed his fingers over Squip’s cheek.

They shouldn’t do this.

“The l-look on Chloe’s face was priceless,” he hiccupped, his hand lurching with the action, fingers briefly brushing over Squip’s bottom lip, before dropping to his shoulder. “She looked so...so…”

“Jealous?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy beamed. 

“She’s a moron.” He paused. “Not for being jealous. Anyone should be jealous not to be you. To not be with you.”

They shouldn’t do this.

Jeremy brushed a few of the curls back from his forehead. “You m-mean that?”

“I do.”

Jeremy leaned forward, miscalculating and wobbling, falling onto his mattress beside Squip. His laughter was brighter, surprised and confused, as he rolled off of his stomach and onto his back, staring up at the glow stars above them. “Does it always feel like this?”

“What?”

“B-being drunk.”

Squip tried to remember the first time he’d drank.

He couldn’t.

But it hardly bothered him.

“Sometimes.” He said instead. “At least when you have good company.”

Jeremy smiled up at him.

They shouldn’t do this.

“My bones feel buh, um, bubbly. I r-really like it.” He grabbed Squip’s tie, brushing the fabric lightly as he looked up at him. “Is that weird?”

They shouldn’t do this.

“No.” Jeremy tugged on his tie, and Squip found himself falling towards him. “It’s not weird.”

They shouldn’t do this.

“And I r-really like, um, really like dancing, I think. We made a good team.” He reached up, brushing a strand of Squip’s hair back in place. “Is that weird?”

They shouldn’t do this.

“No,” He breathed. Jeremy’s cologne was subtle. He’d helped him pick it out before the dance. Had it smelled this good in the bottle? “It’s not weird.”

They shouldn’t do this.

“And, um,” Jeremy’s hand moved backwards, resting against Squip’s shoulderblades. “I really like you.” He squeezed his suit jacket, and tugged on his tie, and Squip found himself laying against Jeremy’s body. “Is that weird?

They shouldn’t do this.

“No,” Squip murmured.

They shouldn’t do this.

Jeremy’s tongue darted over his lips, wetting his dry skin until it shimmered in the fairy lights dancing around the room.

They shouldn’t do this.

“It’s not weird.”

Jeremy’s face was rosy and pink and delicate, and Squip could feel something crumbling under his fingertips as he cupped his cheek in his palm.

They shouldn’t do this.

“Squip…”

They shouldn’t do this.

“It’s okay. I’m a-almost seventeen.”

They shouldn’t do this.

“I tr...trust you.”

They shouldn’t do this.

They shouldn’t do this.

They shouldn’t do this.

Jeremy tasted like a Los Angeles snow storm, rare and cold and soft. 

And Squip was the slush on the street, ready to darken every inch of this rare show of purity.

***

“You know what the best thing about being a teacher would be though?”

“What?” Squip’s eyes felt heavy, though he’d gotten a full charge at their last motel. He wondered if the substance use was draining his battery life.

Or maybe the monotony of the New Jersey highway system was simply wearing him down in new and uninteresting ways.

Rich’s continued harping was hardly anything new. He’d already named 20 other ‘best things’ about being a teacher, all with varying levels of stupidity.

“Field trips.” He held out his hand dramatically, as though to highlight the words. “Museums. Zoos. Planetariums. You ever been to a planetarium?”

“Once,” Squip said. “On a date.”

“You date?” 

Squip took his eyes off the road, sneering at Rich. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Hey, ain’t no shame in playing the field. I just never pictured you romancing someone.” Rich rested his arm against the ledge of the passenger door, glancing out the window for a moment. “I’ve never been.”

“On a date?”

“No, stupid. To the planetarium. I mean, sometimes I forget stars even exist, living where we are.”

“Besides us, you mean.”

Rich blinked, turning to regard him for a confused moment, before a bubble of laughter burst from him. “Yeah! Big time stars, me and you.” His smile softened. “I’ve always wanted to go though. You think maybe after you make amends, we can hit one up? We can smoke some dope, watch a star show, learn about Orion’s belt or what the hell ever.”

“Yeah,” Squip rolled his eyes. “That really sounds interesting.”

“Right?”

“Obviously not. We’re not doing that.”

Rich shrugged, looking out the window again. “It was just a thought, dude. Whatever.”

***

The Oscars came and went. Squip changed the channel before the nominees for Best Picture could be named.

“I was watching that!” Rich protested.

“And now you’re not.”

“Bitter much?” Rich cuddled the blanket around himself and smiled as he watched the Spanish telenovela Squip had changed the channel to played out before them. “We should branch out, dude. Screw American movies. Your potential shouldn’t be contained by one industry alone.”

“I was offered a spot in a Japanese commercial once.”

“Yeah?”

“Diaper cream.”

“Did you do it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Big mistake.”

“Well, add it to my growing pile of mistakes. I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.”

Rich snorted, as Squip dropped back to lay against the bed. Rich lowered himself after him, resting his head against Squip’s chest. “You know, you’re my best friend. How sad is that?”

“How is that sad?”

Rich laughed, his eyes closing. Squip waited for him to answer, only to be greeted by the quiet chorus of his snores.

***

The panic in Jeremy’s eyes shattered any semblance of composure and quiet bliss their observations had tricked Squip into believing he’d built for himself.

“What are y-you doing here?” When Squip had seen him in the courtyard speaking to his peers, Jeremy’s voice had been steady. And yet here, the stutter returned. Jeremy hugged his textbooks to his chest, backing into his home.

It still smelled the same as when he’d left at four in the morning, suitcase only half-packed in his panic. Cinnamon apple scented candles. Was it possible to feel homesick for somewhere that had never been his to claim?

Squip started to step forward, only for Rich to grab his wrist. His grip was loose, but Squip didn’t dare pull away.

Something told him that breaking that tether would destroy any last shot at redemption.

“I just-”

“No,” Jeremy shook his head. “N-no, I don’t want to h-hear...I…” He took another wobbly step back, a baby deer reversing its gait to try to remember its own body movements well enough to escape a predator.

“Jeremy, I never-”

“I’ll c-call the cops.”

They both knew he wouldn’t. 

“I’m sorry.”

Miles and miles to get where they were, and in his delirium of drugs and alcohol, that was all Squip could get out.

Jeremy shivered, as Rich tugged on Squip’s wrist.

“We need to get out of here.”

Sitting in the passenger seat felt cramped and unsafe and wrong, as he watched Jeremy’s apartment grow tinier and tinier in the side mirror.

***

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have just gone to a salon.”

Emily kicked her feet back and forth-

No.

Squip wrinkled his nose, not in distaste, but with the effort to fit the correct terms into memory. To overwrite what he’d formerly had in mind.

Rich kicked his feet back and forth in the overpriced kitchen chair, as Squip poised behind him with a pair of clippers and a $2000 hairbrush.

“You said you wouldn’t judge me.” Rich beamed up at him. “Besides, it’s my birthday, bitch!”

“Yesterday was your birthday,” Squip grumbled. He took a strand of her--of his long hair, frowning as he strummed his thumb over it. 

“I mean, obviously. And you gave me the best 18th birthday present any starlet could ask for.” 

Squip’s eyes dropped to Rich’s neck, and the string of hickeys chasing around his skin. Something felt itchy and wrong in his chest. He clicked the scissors a few times, listened to the swish-swish of metal on metal, until he forgot whatever warning signals which were being blared to him. 

“Then I don’t owe you a haircut too.”

“Shut up, Squip. You owe me.”

“I fail to see how.”

“I trusted you with this ultra secret part of myself. My budding boyhood.”

Squip’s stomach might have been synthetic, but it certainly flipped in nausea at the phrasing. “That’s disgust-”

“Not in a sex way, doofus.” He cackled. “Look. You’re the first person I told about this, right? Two years ago.”

“Right,” He said warily.

“And you said I should keep it to myself, right? That it would hurt my career prospects?”

Squip couldn’t vocalize anything there. He pet his hair for a moment.

“So really, for making me stay closeted, you totally owe me a hot guy haircut for my troubles.”

“That’s manipulative.”

“Yup,” Rich said cheerfully. 

“Besides, it will affect your career. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“Already leaked the stories to the tabloids. My Big Ol Tranny Trainwreck of a Life.”

“I’m fairly certain that word is considered offensive now.”

“It’s my offense to take, dude.” Rich--and Squip had to admit, the name was growing on him--smiled a dreamy little smile. “Maybe it will wreck my career. Maybe I’ll have to start all over. Would that really be so bad? I could go back to school, find something to do with my life. I could, like, help people or something maybe. Or be happy. Or, I don’t know, maybe I’ll flame out, but it’ll be flaming out on my terms.”

Squip considered it for a moment. 

“...what if I fuck it up?”

“My hair?” Rich snorted. “It’ll grow back. Make me a man, Mr. Squip.”

Looking back, Squip would wish he’d told Rich he was already a man, that he didn’t need a haircut or validation or anything that Squip could provide to give him what he needed.

But instead, he rolled his eyes and began to trim away the familiar pigtails which had graced Rich for the entirety of his child and teen stardom.

***

Squip hadn’t expected his lamenting to worm into Rich’s demeanor.

But before his eyes, Rich went from supportive, to scowling, to distressed, fingers scraping through his hair, feet anxiously pacing.

“Dude,” He finally exclaimed. “Enough!”

“I just-”

“You’re not doomed. Or if you are doomed, then we’re all doomed, and...and that’s solidarity and…” Rich’s fingers clutched at his hair, eyes wide, breathing shallow. “...god. Just...god, just stop and let me breathe for a moment, Christ.”

“I can’t believe you’re making my traumatic experience about you,” Squip said dryly.

Only to wince as Rich sat on the edge of the park bench. The sun was nearly completely swallowed by the horizon, everything murky and vaguely pink.

“...Rich?”

Rich’s eyes squeezed shut. “I hate this.”

His voice was quiet, muffled by his own misery. His body swayed back and forth against the seat, and his toes pointed inward.

Squip stood before him, as Rich sucked in a frightened breath.

“Everything is ruined. Everything was ruined before I even had a chance to fix it, and I just-”

“Hey,” Squip took a seat beside him. This time, it was his arm that looped around Rich’s body. Had he always been so small? “What I did with Jeremy was...it wasn’t good. But he seemed happy, until we showed up. I’m sure everything will-”

“No.” Rich jerked away. “No. I don’t mean--I mean, yeah, that sucks, that really sucks, and I’m sorry, but I just…” he wrung his hands together, eyes wide and staring ahead. “I don’t want to...I don’t want to be this anymore.”

“Rich-”

“I don’t want to be Rich anymore. Or...or Emily. Or anything. I don’t want...I just…” He dropped his head into his hands. “I thought, when I was younger, that my problem was, like, I don’t know. The dysphoria or something. That maybe if I was really Me, then I’d really...then I’d be happy.”

“Rich…” He wasn’t cut off this time, but he found himself unable to think of what to say, letting his tone trail off.

“But I don’t think I’ve ever really been me, ever, in my life. I don’t even know what that means. “Be yourself”. Who the hell is that?”

Squip rubbed his back gently. He swore he could feel every atom in Rich’s body vibrate with the frequency of his panic.

“I don’t think I was ever meant to be a whole person. I don’t think I was ever meant to be loved. I...god, I sound like a spoiled brat, I have everything I could ever want, why am I crying?”

And sure enough, Rich’s face was wet, patterings of teardrops littering the filth of the sidewalk. A lone sob tore through him, before Rich’s fingers clutched at his mouth, trying to stifle himself.

“I love you,” Squip said. The words tasted unfamiliar and clumsy.

And horribly honest.

Rich sobbed again, tearful eyes turning to look at him. He dropped his hand from his mouth. “You do?” he asked, voice thick and hopeful and tragic. Squip forced himself not to break eye contact.

“I do.”

Rich’s lips twitched, the faintest trace of a smile at the corners. “You mean that?”

“I said I did, didn’t I?” he tried to inject irritation into his voice. After all, he had no idea what to do with all this affection. 

Rich sniffled, rubbing his eyes on the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

And he certainly didn’t know what to do with that. Or what to do with his hands. He went back to rubbing Rich’s back. “Look,” He finally said. “I’m not a classroom of snotnosed ingrates, and you’re not exactly ‘dorky but wise’ or whatever it was you were going on about, but perhaps we could have a field trip, just the two of us?”

Rich dabbed the last remaining tears from his eyes, though his voice still trembled with the heaviness of his crying. “A field trip?”

“I’m thinking the planetarium. There’s one a couple miles from here. Sun’s going down now, they’re probably starting their next show soon. What do you say?”

Rich’s lips split into a bright grin, as he nodded. “Yeah,” He said. “Yeah, that’d be...that’d be so cool. You really mean it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh man, this is awesome.” Rich hopped up from the bench. “Come on. Come on! I don’t want to be late!”

Squip shook his head, amused, as he followed after him. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “You know what would make it great?”

“What?” Rich’s hand lingered against the passenger door, turning to smile at Squip in expectation.

“I think I still have some of that Toledo heroin in my glove box.”

“Oh, nice! That’ll really make the stars pop.” Rich grinned as they got into the car. “Dude, you think of everything.”

“I know.”

“And, like, I love you too, for the record.”

Squip reached over, opening up the glovebox, the back of his neck hot and uncomfortable. “Don’t ruin the moment, Goranski.”

***

There was a certain intimacy in reclining in a small, dark room, surrounded by science geeks and stoners and clumsy couples, as artificial stars dazzled in the ceiling above them.

Rich’s grip was loose against Squip’s hand, the weight of his head feathery and light against his shoulder.

“This is so cool,” Rich said. “Seriously, Squip.” His voice had slipped into the speech patterns of his childhood and Squip couldn’t help but laugh.

“You really need to work on that lisp.”

Rich seemed not to notice the chiding. His grip tightened against Squip’s for just a moment, the narrator naming constellations as the cosmos dazzled before their inebriated eyes.

“We should buy a house out in the country, Squip. Me and you. And we could see the stars every night.”

“I don’t think that life would suit us.”

“Why not? We could have a garden. And a chicken. Teachers don’t make very much money, but I’d find a way to support us.”

Squip shook his head in amusement. “I think it’s a little late to change our lives that drastically.” He glanced up. It put things into perspective, though, didn’t it? The stars. The vastness of existence. “Besides, maybe we don’t need to reinvent ourselves to have a meaningful existence. Maybe it’s just enough to be us as we are now. Imperfect, but evolving. Changing. Growing. Maybe we’re already enough.”

“I wanna be a teacher.”

It was like he wasn’t even listening. It was endearing, though, how focused Rich could grow onto one topic. His body felt heavier against him, weight balanced against Squip’s shoulder. He squeezed Rich’s hand, shaking his head slightly.

“All I’m saying is ultimately, the universe is vast, and beautiful, and chaotic, and maybe we’re not going to make a difference. But that’s okay, Rich. That’s okay. All that matters is here and now. You and me. Our experiences.”

He gave Rich’s hand another squeeze. And thought about how they’d held hands, the first time he’d taught Rich how to shoot up. 

Another squeeze, waiting for Rich to silently communicate his understanding of what he was saying. Rich’s fingers remained immobile. Warm and delicate and limp.

“You hear what I’m saying, don’t you, Rich?”

Rich’s nose was bleeding. He could feel it dripping onto his shoulder. Squip sighed, reaching into his pocket with his free hand and pulling out a tissue. He held it out, waiting for Rich to take it. 

Rich’s head rolled against Squip’s shoulder. Squip frowned as he glanced down at him, the blood trickling down his nose, over his lips, the unfocused gloss of his eyes staring at nothing at all.

“...Rich?”

The orchestral chorus of the planetarium’s music vibrated around them as Squip jerked back, watching as Rich’s head bobbed forward, unfettered and limp. Squip squeezed his hand, again, again, again, waiting for the follow up which never came.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this far! Follow me on Tumblr @flightysquip where I frequently babble about terrible AU concepts like this on the daily.


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